


Trust; Fall

by Feather_Quill_Ambition



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: (If I am not going to get more Sibling Creativitwins I will DAMN well write it myself), (yeah), And it's all about my son going thru it, Anger, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending (in a sense), Anyway this takes place after Putting Others First, Come At Me, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders Angst, Do not repost, Emotional Manipulation, Episode: Putting Others First, Forgiveness, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I just really wanted to get into his headspace and play, Janus DOES deal in manipulation at the end of the day and I need this to be addressed, Manipulation (as a theme), Morally Ambiguous Character, Morally Grey Deceit Sanders, POV Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, POV Second Person, Post-SvSr, Remus is a G (not that usual), Roman & Remus bonding, Roman & Virgil bonding, Roman Angst stans come get y'all juice, Roman and the Dark Sides bond, Roman falls and is caught, Sibling Bonding, Sympathetic Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Virgil is a G (as usual), and processes a whole load of stuff, hot spicy take - Janus is a complex character and less than perfect still! who knew, i can go all night, if anyone wants to attack me for my unreliable narrator and my nuanced view of Janus, listen I wrote this in a week while high on Roman Angst Juice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:20:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24098746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feather_Quill_Ambition/pseuds/Feather_Quill_Ambition
Summary: You are at last learning what it is to be a prince.(Roman processes, and comes to terms.)
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders & Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders & Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders & Morality | Patton Sanders, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders & Thomas Sanders (mentioned)
Comments: 30
Kudos: 158





	Trust; Fall

For an actor, Thomas is shit at lying, and the truth is, for an actor, so are you.

Of course you are. You can't do anything right, it seems, and it's no use seeking a second opinion, because no one is going to tell you the truth. Deceit has already won that game with the others; he's used you as a stepping stone into the ranks of glory - of redemption and welcome and apology and warm swells of music. He's manipulated you into the dirt, you know this, you were _there_.

And nobody cares, because now you're the bad guy.

You think about the courtroom, and gloves.

They'll deny it, of course, if you speak your mind about it. They'll go all out to reassure you that you're still valued as you once were. Dedicate a whole episode to it, maybe, you think, and the thought is tainted, discordant. You feel like a prop.

Logan will pull out his long-winded facts, drowning everyone out with his loud rationale. Patton will soften his tone, put on that reasonable, unbearable voice, like a father with a son.

The truth is, it makes you feel helpless, today, that voice, more than anything. Helpless and so, _so_ patronised. Patton is no longer the one who always understands you, stands by you; his words are more hesitant now, uncertain. You need a rock. The truth is you don't have one, anymore.

( _You're not helpless, kiddo_ , Patton says in his mind, _we love you,_ and it doesn't help. It doesn't.)

This is what you are thinking, all of this, as you leave.

The Mindscape isn't empty but it is silent, calm like the eye of a storm. You don’t care where the others are. You make your way to your room, unseeing; your blood rings, hammers in your ears. It’s too loud. Your chest is too tight. You hurt. You _hurt_ , everywhere, and you want it to stop.

(He made you the villain, just then. You know what you looked like, sounded like, out there. What you felt like. You're not the villain, here. You're _not_. You're not.)

Of all the people to forsake you, Patton. There was no way you could have seen it coming - you thought you were on the same page about it all. You had been, right? You sat in the same courtroom as he did, bore witness to the same debacle. You listened to him, as he convinced Thomas to do the right thing. Tried to convince you.

You almost believed, as you banged the gavel, that you would be happy with your choice. You think about toy hammers. You think about consequence.

There are splinters, jagged on the dulled wooden frame of the door. Your sash catches in them as you move; it jerks you back, stubborn. The growl that rips from your mouth will haunt you eventually; in the moment, you feel distant, watching from within your own head, as a monster pilots your body. This will terrify you later. Right now, you welcome it.

Right now, you turn, grab, tug, twist. The sash rips off your shoulder with a sound like a scream, and royal red flutters to the floor.

You stride on, striking in stark white, still lined with gold. You are a soldier; you are a chess piece; you are a sacrifice. Your colour stays behind, pooling, stilling. You think about blood, and paint. The truth is.

(The truth is, there is bitterness in your mouth. There is hatred, and sharp-edged spite, slicing into your gut, and despair, curled tight, beneath. The truth is.)

The truth is, if they're going to turn around and tell you, after everything, that he should have chased his _fucking_ dreams.

After everything, that you made the wrong call. After everything, that you're not good for him, that you never will be, even when you're trying harder than you've ever tried in your life, even when you ache, _ache_ , from the effort –

– The truth is, if it’s your fault either which way, then isn't that unfair? If he should have gone to his callback, and if he wanted to, and he didn't, isn’t that just so, so infernally unfair? And whose fault is it? Whose?

You knock over a glass, pacing about like you are, and it rolls indifferently against warm wood, sharply cracked.

Wasn't it wrong, that they didn't even _ask_? That they stuck you up there in a robe, told you to make the call, never asked what it was _you_ needed? Why was it you, in the end, who was called on to choose, when you knew what you wanted and were told it would compromise everything you held dear?

What choice was there, in the end? What kind of choice did you have?

There's a fog around the corners of your vision; there's a hole in your throat. You would have been right. You would have made the right call. You’d have hated yourself, and everyone would have hated you, but either way, look where you are now, you think, and go figure. You think about swords, and scales.

_It's gonna be okay, kiddo. We love you._

_Kiddo_. You know it's affectionate, but it doesn't matter. You fought, you really did, but you haven't had a seat at this table for a while. No one has noticed, or no one minds.

It's not okay. It's not fair. It's not fair. But you’re so tired of fighting.

You sit down on the floor. Your jaw hurts. You unclench it. You taste the blood in your mouth from where your teeth dug into your lip; you savour it. You swallow it.

You sob. You sob. No one hears you.

* * *

In the end, it’s Virgil who finds you here first.

“You look like shit,” he says, and then, “Sorry.”

You don’t answer him. You don’t tell him to leave, either.

“Roman?”

Footsteps, a rustle of fabric next to you. He sits on your bed, above you, where you’re leaning against the bedpost, and nudges you with his leg.

“I heard half the story from Patton,” he says, into the silence. “And then I heard half of it from Thomas. And then I was gonna ask Logan but I figured... I’d just ask you. In case you wanna, I don’t know, share an alternate perspective, or something?”

You exhale, messily. You don’t know how to begin. But finally, you think, finally, someone has asked for your input, and you’ll be damned if you don’t make the most of that.

“Tell me,” says Virgil. You can’t see his face from here, but you don’t have to. You know what he’s going to say, and he says it. “I know what he’s like, too. Tell me what happened.”

So, you tell him, and he listens.

Somehow, it’s more of a relief than you think it’ll be, being listened to. Your voice gradually loses its hoarse edge, your hands beginning to flutter in tune with what you say. He doesn’t interrupt you much, only to add a comment or a question, and he slides off the bed until he’s next to you, your knees aligned, his shadow eclipsing yours, and he listens.

The words spill out of you until the end, when they don’t.

“He told you his name?” Virgil says, and there’s trepidation, and something else in his voice.

You nod. You try to unstick your throat.

(The worst part is, he’d seemed completely sincere. He'd taken off his glove and everything, and you know how much the gesture means to one who deals in concealment. He’d sounded genuine, and honest, and if you’re being honest, that frightens you.)

The next question doesn’t need to be asked, but you don’t want to answer it. You owe him the truth, of course you do. You know this. But still.

You tell him the rest. You don’t meet his eyes, but you get the words out. There is silence, for a long minute. Your hands are shaking. You don’t like what you are.

“That wasn’t okay,” Virgil says quietly. There is a flint edge in his voice. But he says nothing more.

“I know,” you say, and it’s all you can manage, so you say it again, choking on the sound of your voice. You still can’t look at him. “I know. I know."

After another minute – you don’t like yourself. You don't like what you are, what you do, you’re so ashamed of your actions – he places a hand on your shoulder. And it’s harder than Patton's and it's so much softer than you deserve, and you don’t dare to breathe until he says, “Dick move. But. I know what you're thinking. And no, I don’t hate you, so chill out.”

“Oh,” you say. You feel the air in your lungs again. His hand stays on your shoulder as you cry; this time, it’s easier to breathe.

* * *

There’s a quote by Dryden you always liked: _None but the brave deserves the fair._

What more, you think, must one do to be brave?

* * *

Logan will stop by, a few hours later, poke his head in, and you’ll pretend not to notice.

Thomas is the one who seeks out Logan's rationality, relies on his sturdy, unshakeable calm, welcomes it in their usual storms of rapid-fire discourse. Thomas likes that about Logan. If you’re being honest – and honesty is the policy of the day – you’ve never liked it half as much as he does.

You respect him, you do. Logan battles with his mind: always blisteringly quick to dispute, debunk, rebuff where needed. It’s a solid strategy. But right now, thinking about rationality makes you want to punch a wall. Right now, at least, you want to be head to head with someone, yelling your heads off about your opinions. Not slowly crushed like a bug by cold, unsatisfying reason.

You can’t talk to Logan. You can think this, brutal in the privacy of your mind: you need to talk to someone who fights from the heart.

(You’ll think about hearts, and hands, and about conviction. You’ll stop thinking, after that.)

So you’ll keep your head down. Remain perfectly still. Logan will see right through it, but he’ll keep moving, and you will not think about how you feel safe again.

* * *

Virgil talks to you for a while afterwards, until your head is too heavy to move, and then he puts his hoodie around your shoulders and you don’t protest, because you’ve always liked his hoodie.

“Listen,” he says to you before leaving, his shadow stretching like a cat as he stands. “I know, okay? I know what he’s capable of just like you do. And I know what he’s done in the past, so I’m on your side there. I am. And I hate to say this, God, I don’t wanna say it, but. You hated me too, once. Before I changed.”

It’s different, you want to say, that was different, it does not begin to compare. You say nothing.

Virgil leaves. You continue to sit on the floor, white and black and purple, and the floor is uncomfortable, but you are in a comfortable stasis.

* * *

You don’t like talking to your brother, most of the time. You don’t, but here he is, and he is hefting a mace.

“Don't do that,” you say, from the floor. You can’t hide a wry grin. “It’s not worthwhile.”

“Ooh, but I’m a _Dark_ Side,” he says, pausing to strike a pose at you that is just this side of too suggestive, and you snort. “I’m a bad bitch. I do what I want.”

Earlier today, Remus got angry. He doesn’t yell, not quite, but his voice turns razor-edged, loud and vicious, when he’s upset, and while the mace is still terrifying to the uninitiated, it’s a secondary threat.

You heard that voice, through the walls, from the heavy air of your room. You couldn’t make all of it out, but you got the gist.

(In short, when he came knocking – quieter, eyes brimming with something you can’t place, simmering and rich and impossibly warm – you let him in, because he earned it.)

This is your brother. He even acts like it, sometimes.

“Brother dear,” he says, plopping down next to you, suddenly serious, a little hesitant. “You’re gonna have to get up eventually.”

You did. You folded the hoodie and you placed it on a chair, and you paced, and paced, and you sat back down. The truth is, you’re just tired.

“Not yet,” you say, instead of anything else, so he doesn’t push. Instead, he just sits with you, cross-legged on the floor, and allows you to lean against his shoulder. The insect green of his sash fills your vision, vibrant. You are thinking about frogs.

“Is Patton okay?”

The question slips from you without thought. You feel him shift to look at you.

“You want the truth, or lies?” he says simply, and there’s the answer. You sigh.

The truth is Patton didn’t deserve any of it, at the end of the day. He didn’t deserve Remus’ loyal fury, your icy vitriol. And sure, you tried to direct it to the other side of the room, away from him, but Patton is nothing if not perceptive, and he knows. Of course he does.

“I went easy on him,” Remus offers chirpily. At least that’s something.

“He’s been trying, you know,” you say, head heavy on his shoulder. “He’s trying his best. I thought you’d be on his, you know. His side.”

“Patton's?”

“Yeah,” you say, and wonder if you're lying.

“I mean,” he says, slowly. “I’m super glad he’s figured out that we’re not all evil monsters. Took him long enough. But, y'know. I know where you’re coming from. Jan can be... well. He doesn’t always... think about who he's hurting.”

“Has he ever...?”

“Not. Not me,” he says, softly. “Not really. But I’ve seen how he acts. I saw how he was with you. I tried talking to him about it, but. I don’t know if. Well.”

You nod slowly against rough fabric. You are learning so much, today.

“Thanks,” you say. Maybe he’s listening.

You put your arm around Remus. He leans his head on yours. Together you sit, you take in the walls.

* * *

The truth is, what are you?

You think about princes. What is a prince, anyway? You thought you knew.

A prince is supposed to be brave, you think, but you don’t feel brave. You don’t feel brave about what you have to do.

But Thomas needs you, too. And what sort of a prince are you, if you don’t protect him?

“I’ll do it tomorrow,” you tell Remus, who nods.

“Rest up, brother dear,” he says. You close your eyes.

* * *

Tomorrow, you’ll seek out Logan.

“Tell me what you know,” you’ll say to him, and he will look up, startled by the calm in your eyes, the lack of ceremony in your words. “Tell me everything you know about one thing.”

“And what would that be?” he will say, closing a book with some trepidation.

“Manipulation,” you say, “how to spot it. Avoid it.” And he will pause, then nod.

* * *

Before Remus leaves, he stops to place something on your bed. It strikes you, how subdued the gesture is, how gentle.

You only look at it once he is gone. It’s your sash, retrieved. It is tattered and torn, dusty from the ground.

It is also defiantly red, devotedly yours. Your hand trembles as you pick it up.

* * *

_(None but the brave,_

_None but the brave,_

_None but the brave deserves the fair.)_

What the hell is brave, if not this?

* * *

“I’d like to speak to you,” you say, and the man in front of you looks up.

(Today, you found a note under your door, in unfamiliar, looping script. It made you angry, and then it made you re-evaluate, so here you are now: on your own terms, and not because he has asked you to be. You will not dance to his tune, not now.)

Logan looks at you as well, surprised, and then understanding. To his credit, he says nothing. You don’t look at him. Your eyes are on one person alone.

“Uhm. Alright,” says the person. He looks at you. You look at him. Then he looks at Logan, and your muscles tense, but you are ready.

“Alone,” you say flatly, and walk into the kitchen, leaving him to follow you.

* * *

_Roman –_

_I know we have had our differences, and despite what the others may think, I know the real reason why._

_~~If you~~ _ _[illegible] ~~I want you to know~~ ~~I didn’t want~~ ~~Please understand I~~ [illegible] _

_I am sorry for my actions. Deeply. If you have it in you to forgive me for how I have [illegible] treated you, I would be most grateful for a chance to make amends. In attempting to help Thomas I have neglected to see how that affected you, and treat you with the respect you deserved._

_I know you have a hard time trusting my intentions, and for good reason. But know this: from now on, without deception, in full sincerity, I promise I will do better. You have my word._

_[illegible] [illegible]_

Instead of a signature, a small, practised drawing: a snake, tightly coiled, two-headed.

* * *

“I am going to talk, and you will listen,” you say, and he blinks. Nods.

He followed you in here without question, without stopping to argue the point. You are painfully reminded that he knows exactly why you asked for this. That he is an opportunist who will seize strength in numbers, in third party intervention and carefully-constructed words.

Here, it is just the two of you. The both of you are performers, and here, no one is watching.

He twists his hat in his hands. Without it, he looks smaller, less certain of himself, and you revel in it for a second. For just one second, you let yourself rejoice in holding all the cards.

(Is this what a prince does? Perhaps you have fallen.)

The second passes, and you are yourself again. You are more yourself than you have been in a while.

“I read your note,” you say. “You clearly put a lot of thought into it. But you didn’t think about one thing. It doesn’t change how I feel.”

He shuts his eyes, inclines his head. Opens his eyes. Somehow, the gesture is understanding. You think you have begun to understand him, as well.

“I decided already,” you say, “how I feel, and this had no say in it.”

Somehow, therein lies the power, in your eyes, in his. You both know, now, how chess is played.

“I’ve been thinking a lot, about how you have been with me. You already know. Playing me like a fiddle, placing me in positions where I had no power over anything, even when it seemed otherwise. Like the judge, in your trial. The actor, prancing about on your stage. It took me a long time to realise it was you, doing all of that.”

He opens his mouth. Shuts it again with a grimace.

“But then I realised,” you say, “that you were doing it for Thomas. And that you didn’t care how any of us felt, obviously, and you didn’t care about me, but you cared about Thomas.”

The Mindspace is so silent, right now. You wonder how thin the walls are. It doesn’t matter.

“I do,” says Janus, at length. Quieter than he’s ever been. He meets your eyes.

“And despite our differences.” You swallow. Face him. “Despite our differences. I, too, care about Thomas.”

It is an acknowledgment. It is less than he’s asking for and more than you want to give. Here the two of you stand, facing each other, protecting something both of you love.

“Right,” you say. “So here’s how it is.”

(It is so, so easy to fall. But you’re done falling.)

“I don't want to forgive you.”

Your voice is a sword, harsh and sharp as ice. Your voice is a rock, steady.

“I don’t have to, and I don’t want to. Not like this, not right now. But. If you’re going to keep Thomas safe. If you’re doing what is best for him. Or.” You stop. Breathe. “If you’re... trying to.”

He nods, once, barely. You have never seen him this vulnerable; you breathe it in. You could run him clean through, from where you are standing.

(Your sash glows, under the ceiling light. It is so red. So, so bright.)

But at the end of the day, you are a prince, and this is what a prince is:

“Then you are welcome here,” you say. “You are one of us. And you’re in it for the long haul, like all the rest of us are. Do not let me down.”

A prince is strong, and a prince, above all, is kind. With effort, you think you might be both these things.

“There’s a man who needs us, Janus.” You turn. You have, in this way, created your own closure. “Keep him safe.”

You leave without ceremony. Before you are gone, you hear him exhale, the sound ringing in the still air. You do not look at him, but you hear the creak of a chair as you go, as he watches you leave. Slowly, unsteadily, you hear him take a seat.

* * *

**_Postscript_ **

There’s another Dryden quote you think about, every once in a while. It comes to you now, and you breathe it in.

_I’m a little wounded, but I am not slain; I will lay me down to bleed a while. Then I’ll rise and fight again._

Beside you, two empty mugs, a plate full of crumbs: a reparation. Your throat is raw from talking; you've said what you needed to say. It’s all out there, now, swimming in cold air.

“I... understand, Roman,” says Patton, very softly. “I won’t ask you for anything more. I know he hurt you, and – and I hurt you, by not recognising that. I thought... well. But I’m glad to see you again. I missed you. And I’m sorry. I'm so sorry about the callback, Ro.”

_Don’t be sorry,_ you don’t say. _You’re a better person than I am,_ you don’t say, and, _thank you for saying it, anyway,_ and, _I missed you too, for a minute there,_ and _thank you. Thank you. I am here to catch you when you fall._

“I am as well,” you say, instead. “I’ve been... processing. Thank you, for listening.”

“Always.”

Patton looks at you with unapologetic love. You think about ponds full of frogs and you think about kindness. You think about your sash, stately on your shoulder, and what it means to you.

Here is Patton, listening. Here is your best friend: face flushed with the echo of catharsis, shoulders tense from an everyday uphill fight. What happened was, when you think back, worse for him than you care to dwell on; and here is your hand, reaching out. He takes it. Here you two are, still, after it all.

“You’re irreplaceable. You are,” he says to you. You don’t believe it, but he says it again, the words clear as water, eyes like a sunrise. “You’re important and you’re valued here, no matter what. And we care about how you feel, and what you think. We’re gonna listen to you. We’re listening.”

(You know this, now. They will catch you, even the ones you considered beyond reason, beyond repair. You think about the warmth of a hoodie, the safety of a shoulder. You think about the emerald green of a sash, bright anger, quiet comfort.

You think about Janus. You think about Thomas, and all the things you and he have built.)

“Thank you, dear Pat,” you say, and it’s not even the hardest conversation you’ve had today, but you are rocked by the force of it. You smile at him. He deserves one. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” he says, simply, and you have to look away, eyes prickling. “Not gonna stop.”

You nod, jerkily, in the quiet. It’s all you can manage. You look back at him, and he’s crying, and you’re crying, and you think you’re going to be fine, soon, after all.

_(It’s gonna be okay, kiddo.)_

“Thank you,” you say, again. Your voice cracks, this time.

Patton opens his arms to you, and it is easy to step into them. Hugging him is like a sip of cocoa. You close your eyes.

Allow yourself to fall. They will catch you.

“We got you, kiddo,” Patton says. “You got this.”

(This time, you may let yourself believe it.)

**Author's Note:**

> Shoutout to [@bored_wayward_dragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bored_wayward_dragon/pseuds/bored_wayward_dragon) for bullying me about a shitty word choice until I changed it (and also for accepting my copious use of semicolons because she had no choice)
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this. It may be one of my favourite things I've ever written.
> 
> Twitter: [@justficmeup](https://twitter.com/justficmeup)  
> Tumblr: [@just-fic-me-up](https://just-fic-me-up.tumblr.com/)


End file.
